


Tinkering with Voyeurism

by PhelfromGrace



Series: Two Tinkerers and Seven Kinks [1]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Dom!Rose (roleplay), F/M, GingerRose Kink Weeks, Humor, Masturbation, Shameless Smut, Spy!Hux (sorta), Switch Hux, Voyeurism, implied Rose/Reeve Panzoro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:54:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26796181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhelfromGrace/pseuds/PhelfromGrace
Summary: Hux gains access to a live feed hologram of Rose playing dom with a Resistance flyboy. He takes the vicarious ride.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Rose Tico
Series: Two Tinkerers and Seven Kinks [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954111
Kudos: 33





	Tinkering with Voyeurism

**Author's Note:**

> I’m very late to the #gingerrosekinkweeks party on twitter (I’m not on twitter btw but I lurk the tags sometimes). I decided to separate this story into a series of oneshots instead of a multi-chap fic, so that they can be tagged individually. I also fail at completing multi-chapters on a timely manner, so this format gives me some freedom. 
> 
> This fic is pure silly kink. Hux is a switch in this (as in both dom and sub). Not much plot, just some fun smack (smut+crack). Enjoy!

  


  


*

  


_Static, crackle, dots._

His fist hammers down onto the portable console in a petulant thump that further aggravates the whining and wailing of the disjointed hologram that he’s trying to stabilize. Grainy bands of light bend into trippy blue waves, and the whir of the projection, once steady, dips into a harrowingly low pitch like the summoning of a ghoul from the pits of the underworld or whatever the kark the likes of Ren and his black-hooded sorcerers exercise behind closed doors in their spare time, time which he, Armitage Hux, will use to his utmost advantage.

Oh, he had once been so busy. A schedule once so rammed pack up the derriere that he could barely take a moment’s rest to ponder the galaxy’s existence while seated upon the layman’s throne. These days, however, he could find himself backlogged with two weeks’ worth of waste and still have the luxury of squeezing the details out pebble by pebble— he has time to waste. Except Armitage Hux does not sit on his haunches and wait for shit to pass, _no,_ Ren is a fool to assume that one could stifle the great mastermind behind the First Order’s technological prowess, that without access to his team of engineers and black-hole credits, without a ship to command, without a role to play aside from _servant_ to the abhorrent Pryde or _errand boy_ for the First Order’s refueling stations— _no,_ he, the esteemed Armitage Hux, will overcome all obstacles and reclaim his rightful rule over _his_ organization, not Ren’s. Because, no, Ren does not care about the First Order or the future of the galaxy, about its progress and innovation. Ren is all brawns, nil brains. He would never be so clever, so _ingenious,_ as to even consider stalking every trace signal from every code cylinder and position sensor emplaced in every officer’s belt that had perished in the recent skirmish against the infuriatingly wily rebel scum. 

The _Nihilist_ would not have fallen had General Hux been at the helm of its command, but alas, one cannot expect competence from pawns ultimately led by an imposter Supreme Leader. The staggering ineptitude. Their recovery team had even failed to secure the perimeter after the attack; their surveillance jammed, they stalled, thus granting the enemy an opportune moment to swoop in and strip clean the decommissioned battlecruiser, yes _decommissioned—_ a covert rebel technician had rendered the entire ship inoperative and murdered the entire crew through means they have yet to fully comprehend. Supplies, parts, arms, _data,_ everything was looted. Only the skeleton of the starship and the corpses of the dead remained. 

Well, it was pointless to dwell on the tragedy. All will be corrected in due course. Ren and Pryde will pay dearly for their incompetence; they will rue their arrogance, their complacency, their _oversight_ for having underestimated the ingenuity of Armitage Hux. While he may have lost his army, his engineers, his abundant credits, his political connections, he nevertheless retains the privileges of an administrator, and with that simple mundane title, he will sharpen a tool as innocuous as an inventory list into a mighty weapon— he knows exactly how many items went missing on that battlecruiser, and therefore, what to potentially track.

 _Tied to a string, once more._ He will find that Resistance base. 

Now, if only he can get this bliffin’ hologram to clear into a tangible image. It was a stroke of good fate to finally catch a signal. He needs a stable connection before he can get to work on decoding the coordinates of the bearer’s current location. 

Leaning back onto spare uniforms dangling from coat hangers, he wipes the sweat threatening to drip past his furrowed brow, smearing a shiny trail onto the back of his black leather glove. Disgusting. He should have installed a ventilation exhaust in this damn garment armoire; perhaps that would be his next project after his impending win.

He fiddles with the wires of the output router, switching the connectors into odd ports and creating unconventional configurations that only a seasoned tinkerer would dare attempt. He boosts the power intake two times its normal capacity. The console whines, hums disconcertingly, letting out more blasted heat that fuels his frustration, and then—

“Rebel scum,” a female voice growls. His muscles tense and he leans into the speaker jack to confirm whether he heard correctly. “On your knees this instant, _vermin.”_

That tone. It is…alluring. An authority befit of First Order leadership, however, that farce of an Imperial accent raises his eyebrow. If only he can get the hologram to—

A blinding light flashes and fills the confined space, then recedes into a crisp clear moving image of a woman. Not just any woman. His jaw drops. He glances at the armoire door, flails an arm and smacks the plane with frantic spidery fingers that claw at the lock to ensure that it is secure. It is, rest assured.

He peeks back at the hologram of the woman now pacing, arms folded behind her back, strutting in what he can only describe as a travesty of the First Order uniform. The teal tunic appears legitimate in cut and colour, but she wears it slack open and lewdly cinched at the narrow waist, causing her generous bosom to stand out, to stand at attention like twin perky cadets, plump ones, the ones who never finished their stormtrooper drills on time and always deserved a good disciplinary slap— as if on cue, she stomps a booted heel, a _high_ heel, sharp like his monomolecular blade and just as deadly. 

His finger creeps into the flap of his too-tight collar, itching to loosen the fastener and set his throat free. It’s getting hot— the console that is, not him. Well, perhaps his body temperature is rising due to the excess energy generated from the overdrive console paired with the confined space, nothing more. It is only natural for this blasted ill-fitted armoire to heat up like a sweltering midday afternoon on the desert plains of Jakku. 

He swipes at his forehead, collecting another slippery trail of sweat on his leather glove, so disgustingly shiny like her demerit-inducing polished boots that stretch over knees and end far too high on her thighs… _bare_ thighs— sweet stars, she is not wearing trousers! 

He rips open his collar and inhales. Thick burning air rushes into his lungs and does very little to assuage his swelling fit. 

The utter perversion on behalf of the First Order. This slandering major, this, _Major Slut_ he shall call her. She flicks her wrist and whips out a comm, the one that he intercepted to remotely activate the belt’s emergency holoprojector. 

“I have him apprehended,” she says, presumably to no one. She pauses and listens into the tacit device. “I understand, Supreme Leader, I will interrogate this rebel at my discretion.”

She slips the comm back into her sleeve and regards her so-called prisoner with a seductive smirk. Hux is no prude. He knows where this interrogation will lead, he has tried it before, albeit to unsatisfactory results, and although he is intrigued by the potential of this mistress, he cannot observe her imminent performance with abandon. He needs to start decoding the transmission’s location source. Instead, he activates the holoprojector’s record function to savour— he means, save, to _save—_ the contents for analysis after the transmission ends. 

He must however give credit where it is due: she did a fine job with her dark hair pulled back in two sleek buns at the base of her pretty neck, pretty _stout_ as in _rather_ stout, neck. Definitely not pretty. So pretty… Her lips, a shade of pale crimson, do not meet regulation, but the lush hue draws one’s focus to her words, to her command, while complementing the clean black outline of her dark eyes. She has a fierce stare, a mean frown that seems familiar… 

No matter. He blocks out the hologram by averting his gaze to the console screen. Her heels clop and he listens to the garbled speech of her scene partner, the so-called rebel. He imagines her rounded cheeks growing increasingly puce as the rebel continues to defy her. He quite liked dark eyes straining furiously, lit with unabashed rage; it certainly suited her attire and countenance. 

One more look. Just a last flitting glance at her face, not at the liberal chest or the powerful thighs that flex at every stomp of razor heels. As she grinds out words, stresses every syllable with that fake accent, the sharp angle of her square jaw tenses. He takes note. She has crushing mandibles…

His focus dips from mouth to _stout_ , not pretty, neck where a thin metal chain hangs down and into the plunging cleft of her chest. The detail is so minor, it could have been easily missed, especially when the accessory is lodged between bountiful— _no,_ he is focusing on the medallion, not its encasement. He squints at the teardrop shape and despite the grain of the hologram, he recognizes the engraving. It’s unmistakable, he _knew_ it.

“The rat from Otomok!” he snarls.

The little runt who bit his finger on that fateful day, the day that marked the beginning of his end. Temporarily, of course. He will get it all back when Ren is inevitably dethroned. The resistance fleet had also paid dearly that day, and he assumed that she had perished after recklessly veering a ski speeder into her _own_ comrade, but no, she survived. Impressive. She, who nearly cracked his hyperspace tracking. She, who did not flinch in fear at his touch… She had gall, wit, ingenuity. _She_ must be the mastermind behind the defective battlecruiser! And now, she was making a mockery out of the First Order uniform that she stole, like flaunting a perverted trophy.

Her gloved palm strikes her partner’s ass in a loud slap that shakes Hux to his core. 

“Is that how you address a general of the First Order?”

That is _not_ a general’s uniform. It is a major’s, Miss _Major Slut._ She would do well to learn the ranks’ insignia before donning the revered cloth. He craves to teach her a lesson, to let _her_ ass sting from the hand of a _real_ general.

“I thought not. Now be a good boy and tell me, where is your base?”

How fortunate would it be if she let this information slip so readily. Except, she isn’t quite so daft. She grabs the chin of the rebel, presumably a man rather than a boy like she claims; it is difficult to confirm with the distortion from the hologram’s transmission signal that is too weak to extend beyond the wearer.

“Spit it out. Or does your tongue need unwinding?”

She leans over, her medallion dangling along with the, umm, _bounties,_ and her plush lips clash with the prisoner’s. It smacks and slides, wet, sensuous, _deep,_ and Hux can feel his heart beating from the tip of his red ears down to his curling toes. He trains his eyes back to his pressing task, ignoring the visuals of the hologram but unfortunately unable to mute the sound of her unwinding the man’s tongue.

“Well,” she says, all breathy and lowered-eyelashes, he presumes. “Are you sufficiently unwound? Or should we loosen something else to get you talking, perhaps, down there?”

He hisses, from underwear and breeches suddenly feeling unbearably tight and far too hot. But he must press on. He is so close to cracking the location; he cannot let this Otomokian wench ensnare him with her sweet, _sweet_ melodious voice.

Synthetic fabric rustles and fasteners unsnap. “Oh my,” she exhales in fake surprise. “I see we are getting a- _head_ of ourselves.”

Hux rests his dominant hand over his crotch, over a swell that rivals the size of her chest. The fingers of his other hand continue to pound into the keypad of the console. Just a little farther…

“I wonder. Perhaps if I pulled on this lever, the tap will flow?”

The sound of jerking and the muffled groans of the rebel rouses _his_ situation. He cannot bear it any longer. He loosens his belt while the crack nears completion. 

“Still not talking? I suppose this is…inevitable. Your little _friend_ needs to be punished, sucked clean to the bone, wiped of all its intel.”

At last! He has done it. The location, he has it! 

He should cut the comm, jump out of this armoire and into the shower to cool off. He should feel overjoyed for locating the Resistance base, a task that neither Ren with his sorcery nor Pryde with his military might could achieve. But Hux does not feel relieved. He only feels stiff and confined and wants to be free.

He turns to the hologram.

That strict face is now…smiling. So warmly, with rows of straight teeth and a scrunched-up button nose. Rosy cheeks, soft crinkling eyes. Despite the First Order cap and Grand Mistress boots and Major Slut tunic, she appears wholesome, kind-hearted. His gut churns with a strange feeling. To be on the receiving end of that face, that smile, her attentive gaze, he wonders.

Oh, kriff it. 

He unfastens his breeches, springs out his cock, and positions the hologram face-forward, point-blank; he stares into her eyes as she bends down and takes the blurred appendage in her mouth. At this angle, this close, it could be anyone’s cock, even his.

She bobs into him. Wet tongue runs along the length, teasing. He moans. She plays with the tip then makes firm eye contact as she begins her descent deep, deeper, until it is sheathed completely within her throat, all the way down that pretty _pretty_ neck. 

Hux’s cock throbs as he pumps it in his gloved hand, slick with sweat and precum. His eyes close momentarily, conjuring up the memory of that tiny mouth with powerful mandibles latching onto his finger, now clamping onto his cock and releasing him only when she desires. Trapping him there in that tight hole while fondling his balls, sucking him and hollowing those cute cheeks that blush in surprise when he comes into her like a battering ram cannon. She swallows every drop, _yes._

There’s a pop and the blurred cock slips from her mouth. Her crimson lips, satisfyingly swollen, shine with spit and seed. She smiles, giggles girlishly, and kisses the appendage.

“C’mon, let’s move to the bed. It’s about time I take this dumb thing off.”

Hux reels back to reality. “No, not the belt,” he whispers.

He imagined coming into her throat, her swallowing and politely asking for seconds, but that did not occur in actuality. He remains hard as durasteel. 

“Especially this belt buckle, it’s been digging uncomfortably into my waist since the beginning, kriff, no wonder those First Order snobs look permanently pissed off.” 

“No!”

She unclips and the signal along with the hologram goes dead.

He sighs. Takes measured breaths to steady his composure.

He might have located their base, but he does not feel the least bit triumphant with his raging erection in hand, unfinished, while she is, at this very moment, writhing in ecstasy with that unworthy rebel halfwit peeling apart glorious thighs and pounding her into oblivion. He grunts, hammers down a fist on the console that lets out a high-pitched wail mirroring his sentiment.

Only a General of the First Order should have the privilege of punishing their officers. It was _his_ duty. 

_She is mine._

Oh, this woman will pay for her audacity. For perverting the First Order. For riling him up and leaving him stranded in this desert-heat armoire, starved. Mark his words, she will pay for her crimes. He knows where she is.

But first, wank.

  



End file.
